


instagram ishq

by susanpevensie (steelthighsvoideyes)



Series: Daevabad, But Make It Modern [1]
Category: The Daevabad Trilogy - S. A. Chakraborty
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Study, Gen, Instagram Influencer!Muntadhir, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2020-09-28 14:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20427557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelthighsvoideyes/pseuds/susanpevensie
Summary: Muntadhir is a social media influencer, NOT a model.aka: shannon said someone should write a fic about muntadhir being a social media model in a modern AU, so i did.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi all! this was supposed to go up months ago, but then life happened so it’s delayed. it’s actually shorter than expected: this is because when i was writing it, i realized it would be a million words if i wrote all my ideas. 
> 
> i decided to make this a series i can add drabbles to instead! so here’s part 1 of modern AU Daevabad. enjoy!

Muntadhir has his Instagram notifications turned off. 

There was a time in his life where he’d kept them on, obsessively counting the number of likes by the minute, but these days? He’s pretty much guaranteed to find a healthy amount of likes (and quite a few DMs) if he unlocks his phone twenty minutes after uploading a post. At some point it all blurs into one giant, loving mass that’s become a constant in his life. 

Carelessly tossing his phone somewhere onto his bed, Muntadhir sighs and begins to unbutton the egregious sequined blue dress shirt he’d just spent the last two hours in posing for the perfect sponsor post. While seemingly perfect for a themed night out at a downtown bar, the shirt’s fabric is quite itchy, and Muntadhir swears the collar’s inner stitching is leaving tiny rashes across the base of his neck.

The price one must pay to maintain one’s status among the people. He prays for the poor souls that use his promo code.

Sighing once again, this time out of relief as his skin is allowed to breathe again, Muntadhir crumples the corporate marketing-gifted shirt, ready to chuck it into a forgotten oblivion in some corner of his room when he pauses thoughtfully.

Eh, maybe Zaynab can find a use or two for the monstrosity. 

* * *

“Doesn’t it bother you at all that that brand is notorious for making their clothes in unsafe and exploitative sweatshops?” Ali exclaims, waving his hand incredulously at the offensive blue shirt now in Zaynab’s hands.

Muntadhir rolls his eyes, arms folded as he braces himself for their now very familiar routine. 

“Of course it bothers me,” he scoffs, “but what do you expect me to do about it, exactly?”

“Not promote their products for starters,” Ali responds like he can’t believe Muntadhir hadn’t thought of that on his own. “You could even call them out on Instagram. You’ve got millions of followers--you could easily expose the brand and start a boycott, which will get their stock prices to drop and--”

“And then I’ll lose my sponsorships from every retail brand ever because they _ all _use overseas sweatshops,” Muntadhir counters. “Don’t be so naive, Zaydi. Things don’t just change like that.”

Ali lets out a noise of frustration and turns to Zaynab, who has remained a bystander until now--a role she often takes on alongside being a strict-mediator in these situations. 

“Come on, you think this is wrong, don’t you?” Ali asks. “Knock some sense into him. If you keep giving brands like this money, they’ll never change their ways!”

Zaynab looks up from whatever little craft project she’s deconstructed the sequined shirt into and shoots the two brothers an irritated look. Muntadhir knows his sister generally sides with Ali on the moral high ground, but she’s also the more practical of his younger siblings. While Ali takes to preaching idealistic resolutions to systemic injustices, Zaynab prefers to spend her time fleshing out a hundred different ways to repurpose and recycle whatever Muntadhir was going to throw out after publishing a promo post.

“Technically, he himself hasn’t given them any money. They sent the shirt as a gift out of their own volition with no real guarantee that it would be promoted,” Zaynab points out. 

Muntadhir shoots Ali a smug grin.

_ “ _ Thank you, _ ukthi-- _”

“_ However, _” Zaynab cuts him off, glaring in his direction, “you were also under no obligation to promote the brand. That was a conscious choice you made.”

Muntadhir groans and throws his hands in the air. “Seriously, you two? I can’t be _ so _picky about what I promote! If I don’t do it, then somebody else will, which would end up tanking my career.”

Ali snorts. “You’re an Instagram model. That’s hardly a _ career. _”

“_ Social influencer, _” Muntadhir retorts, now becoming heated. “I work consistently, and it makes me money, which is more than you can say running around trying to start a new grassroots campaign everyday.”

Ali opens his mouth, ready with just as passionate of a comeback, but Zaynab speaks first. 

“That’s enough out of the both of you,” she snaps. “Either of you start this argument up again, and I will wash your white _ kurthas _ with this ugly blue shirt right here that is _ guaranteed _to bleed color.”

The threat effectively shuts the two of them up.

* * *

Muntadhir much prefers to consider himself a social influencer rather than an instagram model, even if that’s what he really is at the heart of it all. 

At least “social influencer” as a term has a bit more humanity attached to it. Like he’s at least a person people want to look up and listen to rather than just being a pretty creature to gawk at. 

Being the eldest of three children and born in a brown family isn’t the easiest of circumstances. Expectations work as somewhat of a trickle down system, with the burden going from heavier to lighter as it reaches the youngest child. Everything the oldest can’t shoulder trickles down to the younger ones.

There just happens to be quite a lot of trickle down in this family.

Muntadhir’s been out of school for a little over two years now. He’s always been the charming, diplomatic one of the family with a natural leaning for leadership that comes with being the eldest of one’s siblings—all of which positioned him pretty well for any sort of career in business or politics. His father had mentioned this quite often (too often) back when he’d been applying for colleges. After all, such fields held stable and respectable careers.

But Muntadhir never felt any particular inclination to any of those fields. He’d done what he’d needed to for his parents to pay for his college education, then decided he’d had enough. School was bearable, but there was simply no way he could sell himself to a future of starch suits, cubicles, and empty words.

His father had looked at him as if he were seeing him through the glass barrier of a prison’s visitor’s room: with disappointment and distrust. Not just because Muntadhir hadn’t taken to a traditional and stable career out of college, but because he’d been his father’s only hope to have a successful businessman as a son. Ali was on a much too academic path with his intense interest in economics and sociology, and Zaynab was never expected to fill that role in the first place a girl.

It was then Muntadhir vowed to show everyone he could achieve success on his own terms.

So he let his Bachelor’s in Business Administration with a minor in Political Science collect dust in his closet (metaphorically speaking—his stepmother had chosen to frame his diploma to assuage his father with the opportunity to at least pretend) and became a social media influencer. 

Success doesn’t always mean happiness, though.

* * *

He’d just finished downing a bottle of wine and letting it dampen his senses with the lull of drowsiness when his phone lights up on his bed stand right next to his head.

Muntadhir ignores it. He has most of his social media notifications turned off—he’s way too popular to allow every like and comment on his posts to show up on his lock screen without severely clogging it—so it’s likely a text message or a DM he can attend to in the morning. His friends know better than to expect a quick response from him once the sun sets.

His phone lights up once again, likely just a follow up message. Out of distant curiosity, Muntadhir lifts his phone just enough to see who’s messaged him. That way he can prepare himself for whatever it is tomorrow morning. However, he doesn’t recognize this username.

Muntadhir isn’t a stranger to receiving DMs from random people on Instagram. He’ll get a few a day from the few bold followers who try to get his attention by telling him how hot he is or how he inspires them so much. Sometimes he wonders if he should just close his DMs to the public, but he can’t deny that, even though they can get a bit annoying, he enjoys the general concept of attention and praise. Plus, it’s the best way for brands to get in touch with him about promoting their products.

He ought to just shrug this one off like he does all the others and float back into that state of deep sleep he’d been heading to before, but something in his gut draws him back to his phone. Why his brain’s interest is suddenly piqued by this random DM, Muntadhir has no idea. But he suddenly feels like he doesn’t want to wait til morning to open it.

Muntadhir groans and mutters a few choice words into his pillow. He doesn’t just gulp down a bottle of wine before bed just for fun—sleep doesn’t come to him as easily as he’d like, and it takes the right amount of alcohol and universal alignments for him to finally drift off. That promise of slumber he’d been courting just a few moments ago is now fading, and he is officially _ pissed off _ at whoever this—Muntadhir squints at the screen in the dark— _ yaboijamshid _is.

He snorts out of amusement—it’s definitely a thirst DM.

Unlocking his phone, Muntadhir opens Instagram and navigates to the unread message, ready to roll his eyes at whatever corny pick up line is waiting for him.

Only to pause and furrow his brow to get a better understanding of what he’s looking at.

It’s a message embedded with an incredibly old post of his. It’s a photo of him sitting cross-legged on the lawn cuddling the family’s dog—a puppy back then—in his lap. It’s a candid—he knows this because Ali’s silhouette is caught lingering in the background. He’d never let a photobomb like that slide during his photoshoots.

Underneath this is a second message that reads:

_yaboyjamshid_ _ : this is soooo adorable!!!! _

Muntadhir frowns, head still fuzzy and now plagued with confusion as he taps on the first message. It takes him to the original post, and he sees that the timestamp on it is from nearly 4 years ago.

Ah, this was from back before he’d even become a model and influencer. Back in the summer before his junior year of college, when he thought two more years was still a lot of time to enjoy himself before his real-world, father-appointed destiny kicked in.

It’s weird to look back at this photo, the memory (and the alcohol, Muntadhir will later argue) attracts a wave of indistinguishable emotions that catch in his throat. 

It’s even weirder that of all his posts with which to start a conversation, _ yaboijamshid, _has chosen this one. Muntadhir doesn’t want to admit that that might be part of the reason there’s a lump in his throat at 1:34 in the morning. It’s just that people tend to comment or pay attention to the posts that he’s staged, the ones where he’s showing a healthy amount of his body, the ones where he spent hours just to present himself as something other than what he is everyday. 

There’s something about recognizing him at his most human that’s got Muntadhir spacing out at his phone screen, deep in an existential space. 

Blinking rapidly, Muntadhir shakes himself out of it and looks back at the message, biting his lip as he decides what to do with it. And then he smirks. 

_emirjoon: _ _ lol thanks. _

_emirjoon: _ _ how long did you spend looking at my pics til you found that one ;) _

_yaboyamshid: _ _ [is typing] _

Pause. 

_yaboyjamshid: _ _ [is typing] _

Pause.

_yaboyjamshid: _ _ [is typing] _

Pause. 

And then the three “is typing” dots vanish and don’t return. Muntadhir snickers to himself as he thinks _ “gotcha.” _It may have been a different approach, but he knows an attempt at hitting on someone when he sees it. 

The previous sense of sentimentality now completely erased from his mind and replaced with the glee of self-satisfaction, Muntadhir puts his phone back down, rolls over, and falls into a deep sleep. 

* * *

Like many young professionals on the weekend after a long week, Muntadhir wakes lazily around noon. He blinks through the sun streaming through his windows, and picks up his phone off the bed stand to check the time. 

Fuck. If he spends a minute longer in bed, one four things will happen: 

  1. His stepmother, Hatset, will make good use of her diaphragm and announce that lunch is ready and, so help her god, she _will _let him starve if he stays in bed. 
  2. Zaynab will burst into his room and noisily rummage through his closet, claiming he once again took one of her things and didn’t give it back. 
  3. Ali will awkwardly, but loudly, clear his throat and knock on the door until Muntadhir opens it, looking unabashedly guilty of being sent by their father to wake his lazy ass up. 
  4. The family dog will start scratching at his door because Muntadhir, being out of school and _technically _unemployed, is in charge of walking and feeding the little bastard at all times. 

Sitting up with a groan, Muntadhir vigorously rubs at his eyes and checks his phone again, this time going straight to Instagram as has become instinct. He reads through new comments on his most recent post, then idly navigates his DMs to check any new messages. 

Then he sees an unread notification from _ yaboijamshid. _

Furrowing his brow, Muntadhir’s thumb hovers over the message as he recalls the night before. He hadn’t really expected the guy to reply back, not after Muntadhir basically told him his attempt at sliding into Muntadhir’s DMs wasn’t nearly as clever as he’d thought. 

Curious, he opens it. 

_yaboyjamshid: _ _ not sure actually! I couldn’t sleep and was just scrolling thru my feed, and then at some point i’m at the bottom of your posts. _

Muntadhir snorts. Smooth. 

Against his better judgement, he types out a reply. He’ll never be able to actually identify what makes him do it. But he does. And then he puts his phone down to get started with his day.

_emirjoon: _ _ i sure hope my posts had no part in putting u to sleep. _

When Muntadhir comes out of the bathroom, having brushed his teeth run his fingers through his hair to appear presentable, he finds a reply waiting for him. 

_yaboyjamshid: _ _ no, but i lost all chance of sleep after your callout :/ _

And Muntadhir can’t explain why, but his heart squeezes at that. He ducks his head because his cheeks are doing something that aligns with what he thinks a blush—not something he’s experienced in doing himself—resulting from his attempt to hide a smile. 

He doesn’t reply right away and instead scrolls up to the picture _ yaboijamshid _had sent him—the candid with the family dog. The strain in his cheek eases as his smile softens to one of nostalgia and tenderness. In some ways, and he’s only now realizing this, he feels like he forgot what it feels like to be regarded as a normal human being. Sans the makeup, glitter, and practiced smoulder. 

Muntadhir scrolls back down, thumbs hovering over his keyboard, then begins to type a reply back. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the highs and lows of having an internet crush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't know if i was going to expand this fic or not, and revisited it every few months whenever i felt like writing but didn't want to commit to something new. and now it looks like i've written a whole chapter 2! i hope you guys enjoy :) 
> 
> thanks to charlotte for getting me thru this. if she didn't let me constantly send updates, i never would have finished.

Jamshid is a complete and utter idiot. An absolute buffoon. He’s sure Nahri would have a more creative choice of words, but she’s not here at the moment, thankfully. 

His heart sinks as he continues to scroll through the Reddit thread. Each response volleys between gentle let downs, pity, and straight up mockery. Honestly? Jamshid can’t even fault the users who skipped empathy and went straight to asshole—the whole thing is so stupid, the only ones pitying him are probably guys who think they’re in a similar boat, stalking e-girls and whatnot. 

And yet, Jamshid can’t stop refreshing the thread. Can’t stop reading other people’s posts and feel his chest tighten with hope when a gesture sounds familiar. 

(This only ends in Jamshid kicking himself for even allowing himself to fall into these delusions; his soul is now thoroughly bruised.) 

His phone buzzes and a notification from Instagram drops down from the top of the screen before sliding back up out of sight. Jamshid’s heart skips a beat, painful now from how tight his chest is after scrolling through r/relationships for the past three hours. He pointedly avoids the notification and swallows the urge to open Instagram immediately. 

Nahri is his saving grace. 

His sister comes bustling through the front door, a whirlwind against the unperturbed stillness of the living room. 

“You would not  _ believe  _ the audacity of this woman in the soup aisle,” Nahri starts right off the bat, juggling bags upon bags of groceries in both hands. “Lecturing me about blocking the tomato soups as if she wasn’t clogging the whole aisle to make a scene—and have you not moved an inch since I left?”

Jamshid rushes to tuck his phone into his pocket and jumps up to help Nahri with the groceries. He’s almost about to deny her accusation, but the dent in the couch is pretty condemning. 

“I was busy,” Jamshid counters. “Reading.” 

Nahri quirks an eyebrow. “On your phone?”

“Yeah, there are these things called ebooks and—“

“Okay, smartass, take the rice bag.”

Jamshid grins and complies, taking the Costco-sized rice bag and a few other items off Nahri’s hands. 

“By the way, your ass is vibrating,” Nahri calls after him as he limpsinto the kitchen. 

“What—“ Jamshid starts, startled. Then he feels the insistent buzz of his phone is his back pocket and understands—Nahri has a strange way of being blunt and roundabout at the same time. 

He pulls out his phone, checks the screen, and sighs. 

“Spam call?” Nahri asks when she pulls into the kitchen just as he’s shutting his screen off again. 

“Nah, it’s just Reddit,” Jamshid replies absentmindedly. 

“You have  _ that  _ many Reddit notifications? Jeez, what were you—“ 

And Jamshid can practically see Nahri add two and two together in her head, squinting with scrutiny as she rests the last of the groceries on the kitchen counter. 

Oh well. Nahri’s scarily perceptive, and Jamshid could stand to improve his ability to lie. 

“Ebooks my ass. Jamshid did you really spend the last three hours on Reddit?” Nahri demands, judgement staining her words and posture. 

“Okay, but it was for a good reason!” Jamshid counters, and immediately regrets it. Something about Nahri’s accusation made him feel self conscious, like he had to defend his dignity and prove he isn’t a complete loser. 

Unfortunately, he’s now begun to dig his own grave. 

Nahri groans. “Did you go to Reddit for advice again? I told you those losers don’t know shit.”

“Those losers did get you PDFs links for all your textbooks this semester,” Jamshid points out. 

“That is completely different,” Nahri defends and turns away to start unpacking the groceries in a pointed attempt to avoid Jamshid’s victory grin. “So what were you looking for this time?”

The grin quickly drains from Jamshid’s face. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs heavily. “It’s stupid. Nothing important.”

His defeated tone doesn’t escape Nahri, and when she turns to face him again, her expression has melted into one of concern. 

“It doesn’t sound like it’s nothing,” she says. “Jamshid, are you okay? Is it the injury again?”

“No, no, I’m fine, I swear,” Jamshid asserts, shaking his head. Then he swipes both hands through his hair and lets out a noise of pent up frustration. The entire situation is completely ridiculous and overwhelmingly embarrassing to even try to explain. But it doesn’t change the fact that Jamshid is in too deep; if anyone can help snap him out of it, get him to wake up and smell reality, it’s his sister. 

Nahri searches his face, but remains silent, patiently waiting for him to continue on his own terms. Jamshid sighs again, unlocks his phone, and opens the Reddit app. 

“It’s probably easier just to show you,” he mumbles and holds out his phone for Nahri. 

Confusion lining her features, Nahri takes the phone and scrunches her brow to analyze what he’s handed her. 

_ Let’s say I (25M) PMed a really popular Instagram celebrity (26M) that I’ve admired for a while, but I don’t actually expect a reply, obviously. But then let’s say he does reply, and we start talking. A lot. Let’s say we get along really well and text everyday and say goodnight before we sleep. And sometimes it feels like he’s flirting with me. But he’s famous and popular and notorious for being a big flirt and getting around. I’ve never even really met him. But I think I’m in love with him. What do I do? _

“Oh, Jamshid,” Nahri sight under her breath when she’s finished reading. “What the hell have you done?” 

* * *

_ emirjoon: i take it back. this dog is a heathen monster.  _

_ yaboyjamshid: ???????? _

_ emirjoon: the brute jumped up to the counter and knocked over the bowl of fudge batter onto the white LV pants i was trying to paint for a shoot and now they’re RUINED _

_ yaboyjamshid: hold on _

_ yaboyjamshid: oh louis vuitton _

_ emirjoon: ...did you really have to go google LV… _

_ yaboyjamshid: unsure if you’re aware but normal people wear stuff like levi’s _

_ yaboyjamshid: anyway, i think the real question is why you put your white pants next to a bowl of fudge batter  _

_ emirjoon: i needed a big flat space and my sister’s fudge happened to be on the countertop? _

_ yaboyjamshid: sounds like you should have thought about that first  _

_ emirjoon: are you seriously taking my dog’s side??? _

_ yaboyjamshid: i will always take the dog’s side.  _

* * *

Muntadhir squirms on the windowsill. It’s large enough that he can fit two-thirds of his butt on it, but gravity refuses to cooperate for too long, making it difficult to sit still for more than a few seconds. On top of that, the sunlight is glaring unfiltered through the glass, so Muntadhir has to constantly squint and angle his phone around to be able to see the screen. 

“ _ Akhi _ , will you stop moving for two seconds? Also look up,” Zaynab orders, having finished patting his cheekbones with highlighter. 

“One sec,” Muntadhir mutters, typing out a reply and never once taking his eyes off the screen. 

Zaynab huffs and draws back. “Hurry up, I need to touch up the kohl under your eyes.” 

“Yeah, yeah, gimme a sec,” Muntadhir responds, only half paying attention to his sister. He’s currently engaging in a battle of wits and is  _ not  _ about to let some local roast him without consequences. 

“Dhiru, put your phone down or so help me, this is the  _ last  _ time I agree to help you with a shoot,” Zaynab threatens, and the edge in her voice prompts Muntadhir to finally look away from his phone. 

“You don’t  _ have  _ to help, you know,” he counters, though he tucks his phone underneath his thigh. He feels it vibrate again and very obnoxiously so as it buzzes between his thigh and the windowsill. 

Zaynab raises an eyebrow at the noise and keeps it up when she looks back at him. 

“Right. Like you weren’t practically begging me to help you out today,” she retorts. 

  
  


“Mmm, I can’t seem to recall such a conversation,” Muntadhir says lightly, feigning ignorance. 

Zaynab only smacks his arm playfully and leans back in. 

“Eyes up,” she repeats, and this time, Muntadhir complies. 

He keeps his gaze trained on the ceiling to let Zaynab do her thing, trying his best not to move or suddenly blink while she traces his under eye with the giant kohl pencil. Which would have been  _ a lot  _ easier to do if he could just ignore his damn phone. 

It wasn’t even vibrating anymore, but the knowledge that a message from  _ yaboyjamshid  _ is waiting for him is enough to make his thigh itch. As if it’s covering up a secret, and he just needs to make sure it’s still there, safe and sound. 

“So which unlucky soul were you so aggressively texting?” Zaynab asks, breaking Muntadhir out of his little conundrum. “Isn’t Ali in class right now?”

“No one,” Muntadhir replies much too quickly, then silently smacks himself. He could have just played it off cooly, said “ _ just a friend”  _ or something like that—he hangs out with quite a few people, and his sister doesn’t know all of them by name or face. Instead, he deflected like a total political amateur (let it never be said that growing up with siblings and brown parents isn’t a perpetual game of politics). If Zaynab doesn’t catch his blunder, then she’s a fool. 

And she absolutely catches it because Zaynab is, unfortunately, not a fool. 

“ _ Akhi,”  _ she says in that probing way of hers. “This ‘no one’ seems to have quite a lot of your attention, you know.” 

Zaynab is looking at him much too imploringly for his liking, but luckily, Muntadhir is nothing if not one for keeping up appearances. Lying and schooling a poker face come exceedingly easy to him, even if halfway caught in a trap. He probably would have made a damn good politician if he’d considered it worth it. 

“Just someone trying to schmooze me into a deal, that’s all,” Muntadhir replies with a shrug of nonchalance. “They’re offering good money, but it’s a rather subpar brand. I’m just trying to figure out if it’s worth my time.”

Zaynab is somewhat unconvinced, but tones down the intensity of her inquisition. 

“That’s it? Why hide that? Geez, you sounded like I caught you talking to someone off Tinder or something.”

“No,  _ you  _ made it sound like that,” Muntadhir huffs. “And I just didn’t want this to reach Ali in case he comes at me for considering this sponsorship deal because he found out they’ve used toxic dye before or something.” 

Zaynab snorts and raises her kohl pencil again. “Well I sure hope you wouldn’t consider something like that, at least for the integrity of your impeccably high standards. Look up again.” 

Muntadhir lets her have the last word so the subject doesn’t persist and obediently flicks his gaze upward so Zaynab can finish her work. He’s no more keen on resurrecting the topic of ethical consumption under capitalism as he is revealing  _ yaboyjamshid _ ’s existence. Even if for different reasons, both would attract the scrutiny of his siblings. 

And this thing—this pleasant camaraderie that he has  _ yaboyjamshid  _ isn’t something Muntadhir feels particularly pressed to share with anyone else. He hates to admit that he’s become a little attached to a complete stranger on the internet—a stranger regardless of how many pictures of him and his dog he may send Muntadhir—but he keeps coming back for more despite his better judgement. 

Maybe it’s because, even if  _ yaboyjamshid  _ is an internet stranger, talking to him feels almost natural. Like he’s somehow also the most familiar thing in Muntadhir’s life right now. 

For every witticism Muntadhir throws his way,  _ yaboyjamshid  _ has a sheepish but clever comeback that always compels him to keep responding. For every little complaint, there’s a lighthearted distraction. For every moment of sudden, gripping loneliness, there’s someone willing to be lonely with him. 

* * *

_ yaboyjamshid: i think i killed my succulent  _

_ emirjoon: that’s possible?? _

_ yaboyjamshid: apparently??? _

_ yaboyjamshid: rip steve.  _

_ emirjoon: i’m sorry, did you name your succulent? STEVE?? _

_ yaboyjamshid: of course i named my succulent. steve was a good plant.  _

_ emirjoon: so why did you murder it then _

_ yaboyjamshid: i didnt mean to! it just happened.  _

_ emirjoon: mhm sure. that’s what they all say.  _

_ emirjoon: calling up netflix for making a murderer season 2 _

_ yaboyjamshid: you’re the biggest asshole, you know that? steve is a much better plant than you’ll ever be.  _

_ emirjoon: *was _

_ [✔️ seen by yaboyjamshid] _

————————————————————————

Muntadhir presses the oven door closed, sets the timer according to Betty Crocker’s instructions, and stands back, highly satisfied with himself. The moment is a fleeting one, soon replaced with the realization he has to now clean the mess that accompanies the bliss of baking brownies. But considering his other option is to sit and stare at the oven until the brownies are finished,  _ then  _ clean the kitchen, he figures he may as well suck it up and start now. 

He’s wiping down the kitchen countertop when the oven starts loudly beeping at him. Drawing on his oven mitts, Muntadhir goes to pull out his brownies with glee. He’s not much of a cook or a baker, only bothering when he randomly has the urge, but he thinks these brownies came out alright. They certainly smell like good brownies. 

As if on instinct, as soon as Muntadhir sets the brownies down to cool he whips out his phone to take a picture and send a gloating message to Jamshid. Because he’s  _ Jamshid  _ in Muntadhir’s head now and not  _ yaboyjamshid,  _ and sharing the small things with him has become second nature. Muntadhir does it without thinking, which is probably a good thing because if he  _ did  _ think much on how much random guy who hit him up on Instagram is now an integrated part of his life, he’d have to pop open a bottle of wine or two. 

_ emirjoon: [image37463.jpg] _

_ yaboyjamshid: what am i supposed to be looking at exactly? _

_ emirjoon: brownies obviously.  _

_ yaboyjamshid: [is typing]  _

_ ... _

_ yaboyjamshid: [is typing]  _

_ emirjoon: …do they not look like brownies _

_ yaboyjamshid: dhiru they look like shit  _

And Muntadhir feels his chest ache with all the heartbeats his heart has suddenly skipped. Not because Jamshid had insulted his brownies, but because of the  _ Dhiru  _ that preceded it. 

It’s a familiar nickname that much of his family uses for him, which is probably how Jamshid knows about it—Muntadhir has spent quite a few occasions complaining about annoying relatives and quoting them for additional emphasis. But it’s one thing to hear it from his mom and another for Jamshid to call him that. 

Muntadhir reads the message over and over again, and every time he does, something warm and embarrassingly fuzzy blooms under his skin. To his utter horror, he kind of wants Jamshid to do it again, kind of wants Jamshid never to call him anything but Dhiru again. 

Swallowing, Muntadhir taps the message field and starts typing. 

_ emirjoon: dhiru??? _

_ yaboyjamshid: oh sorry!! i wasn’t thinking. bad idea?  _

_ emirjoon: no it’s fine. it’s good. just wasn’t expecting it lol.  _

_ emirjoon: it’s kinda nice. when you call me that.  _

_ yaboyjamshid: [is typing]  _

_ yaboyjamshid: [is typing]  _

_ yaboyjamshid: oh. okay then.  _

_ yaboyjamshid: dhiru :)  _

Muntadhir promptly dies from a combination of a heart attack and lung failure. 

* * *

Jamshid lays slumped against the headboard of his bed, staring at the wall in front of him. The soup Nahri had made him sits on his bedside table untouched, a thin film forming across the surface as it cools down. He appreciates the gesture of sympathy from his sister, but he’s in no mood to eat. 

Getting yelled at by your dad when you’re high on painkillers can do that to you. 

Jamshid’s back starts throbbing in protest of his horrible posture. Sighing, Jamshid plants his hands on the mattress and uses his upper body strength to reposition himself without jostling his immobile leg. It still manages to be jostled however because his leg seems to love reminding him of its current state whenever possible, and Jamshid winces at the pain. The painkillers help, but it’s still a freshly broken leg and there’s only so much Jamshid can do about it without knocking himself out on his prescribed opioids. He’s totally allowed to, of course, but Jamshid expressly hates putting anything stronger than over the counter Tylenol in his system. So he grits his teeth and takes it. 

Nothing will ever be as painful as being on the receiving end of his father’s lectures about his life choices anyway. Jamshid knows his dad is simply freaking out and worried sick over his injury. But he’s had to sit through his dad’s disappointment over his choosing to be a physical trainer instead of a safe and respectable occupation like a doctor too many times before now. He can spare only so much empathy for his dad ramping up his vocal disapproval now that Jamshid has gotten hurt because of his job. 

Jamshid sighs heavily. He needs a distraction, but all of his go-tos involve physical movement of some kind. Nahri left the remote for the TV in his bedroom within arm’s reach, but all bingeing Netflix will do is remind him of how unbearably bedridden he is. 

Without thinking, Jamshid reaches his arm out as if to grab his phone, fingers suddenly itching to act on an impulse that has apparently become instinct. His phone, however, is not within his grasp, and Jamshid lets out a noise of frustration as he realizes it’s sitting on the other side of his cold soup. 

He hasn’t touched his phone since the accident—there were other things at the forefront of his mind—which means it’s been almost a day and a half since he’s spoken to Muntadhir. 

Which is a perfectly normal timeframe to be out of touch in adult friendships. But speaking to Muntadhir—the extremely popular Instagram celebrity Muntadhir—has become as consistent in Jamshid’s life as eating or brushing his teeth. It feels  _ weird  _ not to have spoken to him for this long. 

_ “This long?”  _ Jamshid chastises himself incredulously. “ _ It hasn’t even been two days! Get a grip, Jamshid.”  _

There’s no point in lying to himself. He’s fallen for the most unattainable person in the world. A person who probably—no, scratch that,  _ definitely— _ isn’t sitting around wondering why Jamshid hasn’t texted him in two days. 

The pragmatic part of Jamshid’s brain suggests that his physical recovery period would actually be a good time to focus on reigning in his emotions and pulling himself out of this trap he’s stumbled into. So he should let his phone be. He shouldn’t reach for it. He should ease this Instagram persona, a guy he’s never met and barely knows, out of his everyday life. 

Except Jamshid  _ does  _ know Muntadhir, the pathetic lovesick part of his brain protests. He knows that Muntadhir is a bad cook. That he snoozes his alarm 4 times before waking up. That he’s an insomniac and likes snacking on pita chips at 3am and thinks the world will hate him if he doesn’t constantly give them something to love. That can’t all be part of a persona, can it? 

Jamshid shakes off his thoughts and makes a decision. He’ll enable himself just one more time—it’d be rude to suddenly drop off the face of the planet, right? So he’ll just tell Muntadhir he’s gonna be sparse for a while and then let it go. 

Mind made up, Jamshid works his core to sit up straighter and reach across his bedside table. It’s a trial without moving his lower body, but he finally manages to lay a few fingertips on his phone’s surface and tug it his way. When it’s finally in his grasp, Jamshid recoils back to his original position and allows himself a breather from the exertion. 

Then he unlocks his phone and opens Instagram. 

As expected, he’s greeted with zero notifications, but that doesn’t stop his stomach from twisting anxiously. Jamshid quickly wills himself to ignore it and opens his DMs, thumbing over to his conversation with Muntadhir. 

_ yaboyjamshid: hey, sorry i haven’t texted. things came up.  _

That was going to be it. He had planned on adding one more sentence to wrap it up, but he pauses in his tracks as the three telltale dots of a reply in progress show up almost instantly. 

_ emirjoon: hey! i was wondering why you went quiet for a minute there. everything okay?  _

Jamshid’s heart clenches at the response. Muntadhir was thinking about him? 

_ “No, of course not,”  _ Jamshid scolds himself.  _ “That’s just the polite thing to say.”  _

But maybe it isn’t. Maybe Muntadhir really was checking his phone and wondering about him in the back of his head. Not like Jamshid will ever know because all he has is a string of DMs and photoshopped pictures to go off of. Because no matter how badly Jamshid wants it, he knows he’s never going to actually  _ date  _ Muntadhir. 

So why does he keep hanging onto every one of Muntadhir’s words like a lifeline? Why does he convince himself that he can make peace with his heart playing this self tortuous game?

Because he  _ can’t.  _ Jamshid is lying in bed and his leg hurts and his head hurts and his whole being just  _ hurts  _ right now and if he had any shred of self respect, he’d at least save his heart from further pain. Because he can control that unlike everything else. 

————————————————————————

_ yaboyjamshid: everything’s fine, don’t worry about it.  _

_ yaboyjamshid: [is typing] _

_ … _

_ emirjoon: oh ok then. glad to hear it.  _

_ emirjoon: hey do u think i should go electric blue eyeliner for the shoot today? or stick with that purple from last week  _

_ yaboyjamshid: actually dhiru i needed to talk to you about something  _

_ emirjoon: ?? _

_ yaboyjamshid: there’s just a lot going on right now and it’ll be fine, but i think i need some time. and space.  _

_ emirjoon: oh.  _

_ emirjoon: yeah i get that. take care of yourself! let me know if you need anything?  _

_ yaboyjamshid: yeah. thanks dhiru.  _

_ yaboyjamshid: for being a good friend. i had fun.  _

_ emirjoon: wait what?  _

_ yaboyjamshid: take care okay? and stop eating ali’s leftovers if he has them labeled in the fridge.  _

_ yaboyjamshid: and i hope things work out with zaynab and her girlfriend.  _

_ emirjoon: hold up  _

_ emirjoon: jamshid??? _

_ emirjoon: did i do something wrong??? _

_ [message could not be sent] _

_ [yaboyjamshid does not exist]  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof that ending...sorry boys. 
> 
> don't worry though! at this point, i'm committed to fleshing out and wrapping up the whole story, so i won't be so cruel as to leave it here. thanks for reading and i hope you enjoy Empire of Gold when it comes out! stay safe <3


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